Once, A Glimpse
by Shaitanah
Summary: Illyria wonders how much the image of Fred really disturbs Wesley and ponders on the notions of pretense and insincerity. mild Illyria/Wesley, implied Wesley/Fred Please R&R!


**Title**: "Once, A Glimpse"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: G

**Timeline**: post-Episode 5x20 "The Girl In Question"

**Summary**: Illyria wonders how much the image of Fred really disturbs Wesley and ponders on the notions of pretense and insincerity. mild Illyria/Wesley, implied Wesley/Fred Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.

**A/N**: This is to manifest my newfound love for Illyria. Too bad she had so little screentime. And comic-books… well, they don't sell them in the hellhole where I live.

* * *

**ONCE, A GLIMPSE**

"I love you, Wesley."

Her voice sounds strange: too high-pitched, like the chirping of some jolly and annoying bird. She registers that her cheeks flush the slightest shade of pink and her eyes gleam brighter and her chest tightens and her throats hurts a little when she utters these words.

"I love you, Wesley."

She wonders if she should feel something when she says that. Something different. What do humans feel? They toss these words so often as she has noticed, yet not even on a half of these occasions is it sincere. Humans lie. She knows that they hurt other humans when they do that. Yet sometimes lies bring comfort.

Illyria finds herself getting confused by this. She would lie to Wesley if he asked her. But not to hurt him.

She cocks her head curiously, looking at the face of Winifred Burkle staring back at her from the looking glass, and probes the words once more:

"I love you, Wesley."

What _she_ would have said.

"Do you believe you can make the words come true if you say them so many times?" a voice, laced with soft sorrow, whispers.

He is not cross with her. He does not hate her. He merely wants her opinion.

"They are heavy," Illyria observes. "The lies. They weigh me down."

"Why try to be something that you're not?" Wesley asks, seemingly indifferent.

"Humans do that all the time."

She lifts her hand and looks at it studiously. This hand is so weak; its structure is easy to break, crash even. With what little power she may filter into it, Illyria knows how to make it a lethal weapon. Yet she doesn't understand how to touch things delicately without destroying them, for that is what this hand suits more.

"Pretend. Lie. Masquerade." The words leave an odd bitter taste in her mouth.

"You're not human," Wesley says.

He is suddenly closer than she would – _should_ – tolerate. She spins round to face him and learns that his eyes are blank, devoid of anything but infinite weariness. They always are whenever he looks at her.

Her lip curls. "Fortunately."

Her appearance bleeds back to normal, blue streaks shoot through Winifred Burkle's chestnut hair and her eyes become ice-blue once again. She drills Wesley with an almost fierce gaze which he doesn't seem to notice. He sighs quietly.

"That's better. Way better."

"Why?" Illyria queries when he starts walking away. "Why bear the torment, denying yourself to look upon what pleases you?"

His spine goes rigid. He halts by the door and when he turns round, his eyes are a few shades darker and he reeks with grief once again. Illyria suffocates on it. There is suddenly too much of it. She wants him to stop grieving, but she already knows that she can't help it. Even reverting to the Burkle form will not undo that. Especially not that.

"Do you trust your current form to describe you?" Wesley asks. "Do you feel that it defines you? Does it show who you are?"

"This petty shell is but a shade of my true glory," Illyria admits bitterly. "And too weak to contain even half of my great power."

A soft smile graces Wesley's lips for a moment.

"And you are but a shade of Fred."

He leaves her alone and disappears in the vast halls of Wolfram & Hart. She remains in the middle of the room, puzzled and indescribably tired of these games that humans play. They can say what they will about demons being cruel; Illyria knows humans are the ruthless ones. Demons only torture their enemies; humans like to torture themselves.

"I love you, Wesley," Illyria utters in her usual inexpressive voice.

It doesn't make it sound more sincere. It doesn't make the words come true.

But does make her feel… something.

_June 10, 2008_


End file.
